One Night With Gael. Maya Blake

forgot to breathe all together.

      Gael’s eyes had grown darker, stoked with a dark fire that made her belly clench tight. Recognising the feeling as her first ever genuine sexual attraction, Goldie gasped. His gaze dropped to her parted mouth. Stayed riveted until the almost visceral stare made her lips twitch with a need that bordered on alien.

      Beneath the running tap his hands continued to caress hers. But neither of them moved their gazes except to drift them over each other’s faces, returning over and over again to their mouths.

      She wanted to kiss him. Be kissed by him. Now.

      Her lips parted.

      Gael made a sound beneath his breath. A guttural, primitive sound. And he broke his gaze from hers.

      Released from the power of that rabid scrutiny, Goldie gulped greedily on the air flowing back into her lungs. Along with even more alarm at what had just happened. The thoughts she’d entertained, the want coursing through her...

      Dear God... What’s wrong with me?

      After that sordid, grossly insulting proposition the casting director had flung her way this afternoon, sex should be the last thing on her mind. It should be buried even deeper than normal, beneath the tight, rigid focus of her ambition and her need to make something of herself. Her need not to end up like her mother—a slave to her sexual needs and emotional wellbeing, dependent on others for her happiness.

      And yet here she was, letting this man touch her, trail his long fingers over her skin as if he were caressing a lover. And she...she liked it.

      She withdrew her hand abruptly, almost knocking it against the side of the sink in her haste to dislodge the electricity his touch created.

      ‘I... Thanks. Can we get on with it now, please?’ she said, avoiding another look into those burnished gold eyes.

      He muttered something beneath his breath in Spanish. But he snagged a hand towel and wrapped it around her hand before he drew her to the vanity unit.

      ‘Sit down.’

      The order was firm enough to put her back up, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue any longer so she sat down where he indicated and held out her now slightly less throbbing hand.

      The antiseptic stung, made her wince.

      ‘Are you okay?’ he enquired, in a deep, low voice.

      Goldie wanted to look up, felt almost compelled to look into those eyes again, but she forced her gaze to remain on the clinical movements of his medical attention.

      ‘Yes, thank you.’

      He completed the cleansing, then applied a light bandage over her palm. Her hand felt a million times better by the time he was finished.

      ‘Now for your head.’

      ‘What?’

      He held up another cotton bud. It was then that Goldie registered the slight throb at her temples. Something like relief poured through her. Then she silently grimaced at being glad of the minor head injury. The small gash which Gael was now cleaning didn’t really explain her temporary lapse of control or the low hum through her veins. But she clung to it as the cause just the same.

      Once he was done he stepped back. His gaze dropped to the hand she still had on the wide tear in her sweater. A hand growing numb from holding the torn garment in place.

      ‘What are we going to do about this?’ he enquired.

      She bit her lip, recognising that she couldn’t very well go out into the party with a rip in her sweater. The ripped tights she could take care of by removing and disposing of them. But the tattered sweater would stand out—and not in a good way.

      ‘I... I couldn’t impose on you to find me a sewing kit, could I?’ she ventured.

      His eyes widened a touch, dark gold lightening to its natural hazel colour as mockery returned. ‘I sincerely doubt Pietro would have something so domestic lying about. But I will do my best.’

      He balled the hand towel he’d used and threw it into the laundry bin before he left the bathroom.

      His departure infused the room with a lot more oxygen and a lot more clarity.

      Goldie jumped off the vanity unit and stared at herself in the mirror. Besides the notable evidence of her tussle with the mugger, she didn’t look as horrid as she felt. But she had lost her phone, the little money she had and, more importantly, all the details of the casting directors and agents she’d planned to contact in the hope of landing a job.

      Her last paying job had been an infomercial three weeks ago, which had paid enough to sustain her and her mother’s bills for another month. Her mother’s part-time job as a waitress paid very little. Things were getting more than a little tight.

      She’d gone into today’s audition with more hope than expectation. When it had gone well she’d allowed herself to hope even harder. Until her hopes been dashed by the slimy words rolling off the director’s tongue.

      ‘My hotel room. Nine p.m. Perform well between the sheets and I’ll make your dreams come true.’

      Goldie had barely managed to stop herself from being sick before she ran out of the auditorium and into the bathroom. Locking herself in a stall, she’d been ashamed of the tears she’d allowed to fall. But she was proud that she had picked herself up and returned to the music room to practise her singing. She wouldn’t give up because of one casting director who gave his profession a bad name. She couldn’t afford to.

      Taking a deep breath, she tugged off her boots and cleaned them with tissues, then finished tidying herself up as best she could. Spotting a dressing gown hanging behind the door, she quickly took off her clothes, disposed of the ripped tights and shrugged on the gown. She was securing the belt around her waist when Gael knocked.

      Self-consciousness assailed her, even though the gown draped her from shoulder to ankle. Sucking in a deep breath, she opened the door.

      What Gael Aguilar held out to her was most definitely not a sewing kit. ‘My assumption was correct, it seems. This will have to do instead. Courtesy of Pietro’s absent niece.’

      Goldie eyed the scrap of material in his hand. The black cloth had probably started life in a designer’s imagination as what a dress looked like. But even without examining it too closely she could tell it would be too small. On some level she knew Gael was probably trying to help. But the man’s presence aggravated her on such a raw, subliminal level that she shook her head firmly in refusal. ‘No, I don’t think this will work.’

      His mouth firmed. ‘Go against your wish to fight me on every front, Miss Beckett, and just try it on. You might be surprised. Unless you wish to join the party in that dressing gown?’

      Since that was out of the question, she bit back a grimace and took the dress. Eyeing the garment, she fingered the label, her breath catching slightly when she caught sight of the exclusive designer name. ‘Okay, I’ll wear it.’

      She’d expected her acquiescence to draw another mocking response from him. Instead a hard look settled in his eyes.

      ‘I’m glad you find something agreeable. Try not to keep me waiting too long, sí?’ he drawled.

      Goldie shut the door without responding. She suspected dealing with a man like Gael Aguilar would be trying enough at the best of times. Add the circumstances of their meeting, and the fierce awareness that showed no signs of abating whenever they were in close proximity... She admitted that her spinning senses weren’t up to dealing further with the torrent of emotions he elicited.

      Returning the gown to its hook, she stepped into the dress and tugged the inch-wide straps onto her shoulders. One look in the mirror drew a gasp. The material was luxuriously elastic enough to accommodate her curves but still give her room to breathe. Reluctantly fingering the hem that ended at mid-thigh, she admitted it looked spectacular, and it felt like heaven next to her skin. But the back...

      Goldie